


Through Your Eyes

by ghirahimuwu



Category: The Legend of Zelda, The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Hyrule Warriors
Genre: Its an idea obviouslyelementary on tumblr had, Kudos and comments make me happy, M/M, This doesnt make any sense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-05-12 11:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5664106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghirahimuwu/pseuds/ghirahimuwu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Cia's final defeat, her spirit lingers. In revenge, she decides to drop Ghirahim and Zant, Ganondorf's most precious warriors, a hindrance they will not get rid of easily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vengeful

**Author's Note:**

  * For [obviouslyelementary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obviouslyelementary/gifts).



> / Thank you beforehand for reading! Suggestions and criticism are both absolutely welcome! /

Cia definitely had not left for good. Ghirahim was certain that he sensed her horribly dense and unyielding presence everywhere he went. If he walked down to his chambers, nonsensical whispering flooded the air around him. Should he stride to the briefing hall, her laughter drummed in his ears.  
To his mind, it was plain that something was afoot. Something that required a major alert. Thus, he acknowledged Ganondorf to the situation.

As predicted, the incarnation of Demise did not seem to care about what his best swordsman had to say. What is more, when he advised him to be on watch for a possible thwarting, his Master replied with nothing more than a bellow. The Demon Lord was indignant. In his mind, he was utterly loyal, but Ganondorf was not taking his word despite that.

However, and much to Ghirahim’s relief, the response proved appropriate. As time went by Cia’s ghost faded gradually. Ghirahim settled along with it. Perhaps it had all been a construct of his imagination, overfed by the repetitive battling and incessant noises next to his sensitive ear.

It was only a matter of days until his initial alarm resulted veritable. The whole ordeal had been laid out so carefully that Ghirahim could only admire the Sorceress’s ability to weave. If her devising had escaped his keen sense and constant watchfulness, it was truly something to ponder.  
What she did was not only malevolently cunning, but also low and lacking any kind of scruple.

-

That evening reached Ghirahim and Zant sharing a particularly animated conversation. It was often that they did this routine, finding a common topic and exhausting it completely, then falling asleep in each other’s arms.

“What else can I decry? Well, that obnoxious green is not fashionable at all, let alone creative, of course.”

Sitting opposite to the other on the mess hall, the two lieutenants exposed their deep aversion towards the Hero. The Demon Lord flicked his hair with a vague gesture, his eyes burning in hatred as he spoke. Zant was quick to follow in, tongue sharp and silver.

“The whelp has no gut.”

The accusation lingered in the air for a long time, not being met with a reply. That wasn’t because Ghirahim lacked interest in the topic (his incomprehension of Link’s abilities rendered him unable to do anything but hate him), but by the work of magic, in the literal sense of the phrase. The both of them had been knocked off their lights by something as dark and vengeful as the years themselves.

-

Ghirahim opened his eyes, groaning at the acute throe in his head. It had caused him to lose his sight partially, and his body was almost fully numb. When he tried to crawl to his feet, they didn’t respond. He was as alarmed as a barely-conscious demon could be: his body was not heeding him as it usually did, not being the docile yet merciless weapon he kenned it to be.

As soon as he managed to move, he sat on the floor even though the thought of staining his outfit tortured him deeply. The matter needed dealing with, and immediately.

When his eyes adapted to the light in the hall, it all but burnt his pupils to cinders. When had everything become so achingly bright and limpid?  
Zant seemed nowhere near him; however, a few inches from him, Ganondorf’s boots crushed the floor beneath with omnipresent authority. He spend quite the time glancing at them in awe before determining what bothered him about them: the color scheme on him seemed to be off, far from his usual palette, ranging to a warm and pleasing red, to violet and blue on the outlines and metallic pieces.

It wasn’t until he registered that information that he realized what was occurring.

Heat sense.  
Somehow, Cia had given him heat sense as a revenge.

The whole situation had not a single slab of sense in its composition. From his throat rose a deep, buzzing laugh. He sounded like a maniac. That was definitely not his voice.

As he regained sentience of his body, he contracted all possible muscles, bent every joint and concluded what he had been suspecting from the moment he opened his eyes: his body was not his; it was Zant’s.

“Ah, Master, this is absolutely anomalous.”  
It was simply wrong. The way his voice came out, lilted like his yet with the Usurper’s tone and pitch, forced him to squint in displeasure. It certainly was not an enthralling sound.

He slowly stood up guided by Ganondorf’s disbelieving and rather annoyed humming. Soon, enlightening came to him. If Zant had to deal with such an oddly-proportioned and restive body, he was not to blame for his clumsiness. He even came to feel slight commiseration for his alien lover.

“Ghirahim?” His Master’s sonorous question caused the demon to grin sarcastically.

“Well, of course. Can you not sense my sublime being inside… Zant?” He said as he instinctively flicked his hair with his hand, only to come across the fact that Zant did not possess a fringe by any means. That simple gesture made him pout, to which Ganondorf rolled his golden eyes.

“We have no time for your brainless jests. How did this come to happen?”

“It was—“ Ghirahim made an attempt at explaining, but was cut off short.

“…And do not mention the Sorceress!”

After hearing that, the demon had to huff. “I am sorry, Master, but that is the answer. I suggest we stop regarding the direct issue and take off to find Zant.” Although he had made an effort in sounding polite, he was beginning to grow concerned for Zant’s whereabouts. The clumsy Twili was positively far too sensitive to not be phased by the issue. In consequence, his voice quivered.

“Ghirahim, you and I both know that he is locked away in his chambers.” The Gerudo spoke; arms folded firmly, his unwavering scowl growing on his face. “With him out of order, our outpost could be lost. You understand this, Demon. Go and… do whatever you do to make him feel safe.” He waved his hand off in dismissal, and Ghirahim breathed out through his nose almost insolently. “As you comply with my order, I’ll find a way to return you to normality.”

“I live to obey you, Master.” Ghirahim announced, albeit reluctantly, but ended up giving him a docile response, waddling away in the general direction of his partner’s chambers.

Uneasiness grew in him, however, and it was because of how Zant reacted most of the times to adversities. If he knew him correctly, he would be fumbling over the thought with incessant sobbing and an overall piteous attitude. Ghirahim wished to subvert those insecurities before they took the shape of something major, something that involved their whole cause.


	2. Blame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> / I'm so sorry for taking so long to update. I've been on vacations without internet for three weeks and when I came back, my inspiration was dead. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this! /

If he had ever been somewhere not at rock bottom, now the ground had lowered itself at least ten stories. It was stressing enough for him to deal with his own body (odd in his people’s standards, odd to Ghirahim, his lover, odd to Ganondorf, his Master) to now be clad in _this one_ , so beautiful and out of his league… Zant struggled with it, hating himself for –ironically- usurping Ghirahim’s flawless physique and being unable to undo it.

Din knows just for how long he had been wallowing in gloomy feelings with only soft blankets to comfort him. It seemed like a year. Still, logic told him it couldn’t have been more than two hours. Sensations brewed and crept under his skin (false yet unblemished); and even though he tried to will them away, they were dishearteningly resilient. When Zant finally gleamed in the thought of having tamed the beast of feeling undeserving, it struck back again twice as forcefully, and that cycle repeated for what appeared to be an eternity.

There were voices. They spoke softly, yet Zant was unable to escape their whispers. Lots of voices, and they kept telling him that he was not worthy.  
Not worthy of those wide hips and the way they swayed when walking, and much less of wearing them himself. Also of that curtain of silver hair; sometimes so gloomy, sometimes so trendy, but always gleaming in even the slightest light. Finally, of those exceedingly nice muscles and that toned abdomen.   
He thought perhaps he had loved Ghirahim too much. He had loved and he had lost, so deeply infatuated with that haughty tempter that he _wished_ he could _be_ him. Even if their relationship was, had always been, and probably would always be merely carnal, Zant cared for Ghirahim in his own possessive and twisted way. To him, that was love. And honestly speaking, it was, but it wouldn’t be right until Ghirahim returned it.

Somehow, that thought made Zant cry even more. He was ruining perfect violet make-up in a perfect face by doing so, but he just could not help the fact that Ghirahim saw him as a pastime, the man he could turn to when in need for down and dirty. Zant had nothing against that, but he would always lack the emotional bond Twilis always favor when in a relationship. And that was something he could not force on the subject of his tears…

So he had to go so foolishly and somehow use his magic unbeknown by himself to turn into **him**.  
If he didn’t stand a chance on Ghirahim’s affections early, he was sure the demon would utterly and with unalloyed certainty hate his royal guts now.

What other choice had he, but to cry until his eyes dried and he finally had to face the problem? It truly terrified the Twili to open them and see he was **him** , but it terrified him ten times more to think of finding a way to solve what he had done. 

To worsen the affair, without his heat-sensitive organ system and a pair of keen eyes in their stead, Zant was like a broken compass. He simply did not know how to use the sensory exchange.

Luckily, **his** ears were as functional as his own. He was soon ripped out of the penumbra of his brooding thoughts by a loud bang, followed by a voice he thought he knew, growling ill-sounding words and all sorts of curses. It was much of a welcomed sound. Not the cursing, but someone’s voice. For all he knew, it was Ghirahim, muffling **his** voice through the sleeves and tassels of his Twilit armor.

Zant continued to stare at the door, the demon’s eyes proving almost completely useless in the dark. Only guided by the streak of light that leaked from under the door, he could see that something large was tripping around, unable to open the door. It was true that tears obscured his vision a great deal, but he simply couldn’t afford to wipe them away with Ghirahim’s pristine white gloves. He would never forgive him if he did so.

After quite a few seconds in which the air seemed to hang in limbo, not a single sound in it, the door opened with such force that it broke out its hinges and was sent literally flying to the other side of the room.   
Zant ducked his head. The fragile mental state he upheld at that moment made him overly responsive to hazardous stimuli. Thus, it was definitely for worse when light momentarily shocked him and caused him to go barreling down to the side of the bed, hitting his rump against the floor with a muffled metallic _clang_.

He heard a gentle laugh.   
A laugh in his own voice.

“Ghirahim?” He asked feebly, and the weight of such a meek tone in **his** grand mellifluous voice seemed absolutely awry.

Ghirahim’s tall silhouette shuffled with amusement. However, something changed and made him freeze where he stood. Zant pictured him boiling with ire and ready to spill it all on him, fists scrunching and nose arched in a sneer. His hands involuntarily hovered a few inches above his head in a clumsy self-protectoral gesture.

“Have you been crying?” Ghirahim’s voice lacked both anger and reprimand, but it was evident that he wasn’t accustomed to the Twili’s voice box, such a wide-ranged instrument; since he dropped the pitch into somber murmuring and then picked it up sheerly.

Silence was made, and in the interim Zant escalated onto the bed once again, exhibiting the mess he had made of the demon’s perfect facial coloring with a fair share of shame.

“Yes.” Before he took too long, he added an apology, probing the ground in front of him. He wanted to be on good terms with Ghirahim, but it wasn’t easy when he was the culprit of a king-sized mess. He could already feel all the guilt shaping his actions and words.

Much to his surprise, conversely, there was an understanding look on Ghirahim’s face. The wide orange eyes that did not belong to him could perfectly express his emotions, and in them Zant saw not wrath nor pity, but compassion. It better showed up when he spoke. “I hate this as much as you. That Cia arsewipe!”

Zant gasped.

“What? Are you going to lecture me on bad words?” A chortle protruded from Ghirahim’s lips, making it hard for Zant to take it seriously. “Oh, no… I seem to have forgotten to tell you my deductions about that wench of a sorceress! Do forgive me.” 

He couldn’t believe what he was saying. It was almost as if Ghirahim had been ingenuous enough to take the blame off his shoulders and place it on Cia, who was long-term dead and gone. He blinked in profound confusion, arching his lip a bit without realizing so.

“Don’t give me that look, Zant. I can feel her laughing at our sorry hides. If it is of any interest to you, Master took off to search for a way to revert this quagmire.” Zant nodded, Ghirahim carried on with a smirk. “While we wait, I suggest we explore its possibilities, what do you say?”

Zant couldn’t help but agreeing to that. In fact, he was pleased to be relieved of the heavy weight of creating a disaster. Enough to actually smile at Ghirahim. It was strange, smiling at **himself**.


	3. Tremor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> / [Insert lovemaking here] I will not write the smut on this fic, rather a separate work. Please bear with me, this must be kept as PG as possible.
> 
> Again, thanks in advance for reading, leaving kudos and sharing this with your friends! /

The only sound coming from the dark and enclosed room was snoring. A quiet, pacific snoring that could only be identified as endearing. Tucked comfortably under the bed sheets were Ghirahim and Zant, both lined by a thin film of sweat and in the wrong body. The former was fast asleep, winding up exhausted after their session of reciprocal voyeurism, It was marvelous how Twili bodies (or at least his lover’s) had an almost null index of physical resistance. Ghirahim thought it obvious that Zant did not work out as often as he should; and he considered it his call to modify that. His brief passage through the other’s body would not be in vain.

As for Zant, similar thoughts passed through his vigilant mind. Weird how Ghirahim needed not sleep. Through all their time as co-lieutenants and later as lovers, he had never seen him sleep to recover. In case he needed to, he could enter a slumberlike state that still enabled him to react to anything immediately. The nimble Twili could infer that that was the dormant state he had been in for many years, until he sensed the presence of Hylia’s soul arising.

To say the least, they were both mesmerized by the other. Ghirahim found out that he could trace the neon patterns on Zant’s body thanks to the heat sense; and Zant had accidentally magicked his clothes away with a snap of his fingers and thereby discovered how to will objects into existing, insights that both would be of extreme use to the pair in further engagements.

As odd as it might seem, Ghirahim had always been the one to nestle with the other, holding him in an embrace after their nightly routine was finished. In that position, they could spend hours until Zant fell asleep in his arms, and all the while they would speak in hushed tones, conversing about their fantasies and wishes, or about their Master, whom they both admired greatly.  
Now, with their bodies inversed, Zant was still embracing him, only that this time it was the demon who fell asleep. Unlike Ghirahim, he did not wait until the other woke up to break the embrace. Conversely, he covered Ghirahim with the sheets and slipped in himself, holding him close to his body so that he could feel the warmth of his long back against the fake skin on his well-toned abdomen. 

Even if it all seemed odd, Zant was strangely calm. His previous panic attack had subsided as quickly as Ghirahim provided him a simple calming word. The amount of influence the demon had over him was borderline antic, and he knew it. Sadly, there would be no escaping that ravishing sensation of codependence that took over him whenever Ghirahim was around. Din’s tits, even his occasional belittling comments were most pleasing to his ear. There was momentary wrath, yes, but never one to overshadow that odd adoration in any way. 

Ghirahim opened **his** orange eyes and stirred slowly. Zant knew he was awake even before he moved half an inch. He could feel his long ear twitching as the demon turned back to look at him and gave him a wide smirk.

“How many more of these juicy secrets are you intent on keeping from me?”  
Grating words made Ghirahim sound even more fresh-from-bed coming from Zant’s throat.  
To that daring and cheeky exclamation, Zant could only blush, feeling how the heat of his sins passed through his face in a flash.  
The previous night had left him thinking about it. It had been immoral, to say the least, as they explored and desecrated every single crook and slope of the other’s body. Fresh images from it rammed themselves in his mind, demanding to be lit by his memory at all times. It felt contradictorily sating, the rapture of their former actions leaving its burning impression.

“I-I…” Unable to justify the aspects of his body he had never shown to Ghirahim, Zant felt like his personality stained **his** self-assured (often even vainglorious) manners.

“Oh, cut it, you jester. Soon I will find them all out; and bring you raptures like you had never experienced before.”

That was easy to declare. A spat-out exclamation, given the fact that he had never been touched by any other person before. Ghirahim took him places he didn’t even ken to exist before.  
As a child, Midna alone was his friend. Later, not even that abhorrent wench kept him company. Raised in grief and sulking thoughts, Zant was relieved when he found that Ghirahim would gladly not only talk to him but also _sleep_ with him. Driven by loneliness and how glorious a tempter the demon was, Zant found it inevitable to accept his overt advances and engage in an odd sort of relationship. The ‘friends and lovers’ deal was unknown to Twili; mostly due to their high appraisal of the concept of love: two or more souls bound together by deep sentimental thoughts and emotions. Demons, however, engaged in carnal ways only. That was why he couldn’t see himself taking part of something deeper with Ghirahim. He deeply appreciated love, and wasn’t sure all the same whether the other experienced it or not.

Suddenly, a soft-spoken name awoke him from his mull.

“Zant…” 

His ear twitched and the feeblest excuse for a smile surfaced.

“…you seem rather lost. I assure you, whatever this conundrum is; we will be freed from it in no time.”

That, as well, seemed easy to say. It comforted him nonetheless, and he decided to peck the other on **his** forehead. A kiss of gratitude. A kiss of love.

-

Ghirahim could see in Zant’s eyes. Of course, they were his own, a pair of orbs he recognized; a pair of orbs he could read like an instruction book. Not in vain had he spent countless hours in front of mirrors of varying sizes and shapes. In his own eyes he saw how incredibly enamored Zant was of him.   
The demon was utterly confused: the Twili had never struck him as a narcissist, a lover of his own body. There was only another explanation left, and it was strange and mildly disgusting: Zant was in love with _him_. He didn’t simply lust after his body like any being with sexual inclinations sensibly would.

As he was partly unable to comprehend what love entangled, Ghirahim decided to let go of the matter, simply believing that he did not share the sentiment. He cared for Zant, yes... but he was uncertain about the idea of Demonkind being able to entertain the concept of love. He had never felt entangled in the weavings of such banal and worldly emotions. The mere idea resulted as absurd as a sunlit night; and, in result, caused him to demur.   
When he thought of Zant, he saw a powerful man extrinsic to Hyrule and thus exotic and alluring. Did he find him important sentimentally? Positively! Whom, if not Zant, would he be able to talk with until his tongue got sore and kiss until he could no more? The answer was essentially a void, a theatre occupied by not a single soul.

Besides, if Zant was gone…

He hadn’t time to react. A thunderous clanking of metal made itself audible from outside Zant’s chamber, the wind bearing blood-scented fervor in its swiftness. Ganondorf knocked the large door down with all his force.  
There was the wildest of looks on the man’s face, his golden eyes sizzling in ire and urging the two warriors to be ready as soon as their antithetic bodies allowed. 

“Master, what occurs?” Ghirahim called out, but got no satisfactory response. Only a low-grunted ‘go!’.  
As they both attempted to rise to their feet and scramble away from the bed, everything shook.


	4. Undo

Mismatched fingers hastily swiped together in a vain attempt to snap, to summoning the vital core manna that should have immediately come aid them in that moment of such dire need. Thought power focused on a pair of all-too-common hands in a restless quest for the matter that would compose brightly-shining scimitars.   
All efforts for nothing.  
Life and death are a balance of reds, maintained by the absolute forces of luck, fate and charm. These forces, it seemed, had decided to turn entirely on the Demon King’s battalions. Decimated by the surprise onslaught, dozens of monsters flailed in despair, fleeing and falling, from or under limpid holy blades.

Soon enough (too soon for our pair of lieutenants’ liking) the battlefield had been decorated with macabre, limp garlands of corpses. The issue was that those corpses sadly were not the dead bodies of fallen Hyruleans. Moblins and bokoblins, lizalfos and stalfos; the dreadful hordes of the King of Demons were emblazons on enemy shields and swords, impaled, crushed, bashed to death.

Hope gave the impression to be mocking the pair of desperate fighters right in the face like a omnipresent force standing on the heroes’ side, emitting loud cackling noises at every missed stroke of the blade.

Everything in their foreign bodies was supposed to work, yet neither of them knew how to provoke such thing. It was that unbalancing bodyswap that made them all but lose their purpose. **A battle lost is not a war lost** , Ghirahim pushed himself into believing. He could still fight, even without his horme-fabricated weapons or instant teleportation, putting some unoccupied weapons to use. Only some. A pair of broadswords which, he deemed, the blood soaked bokoblin that lied still on the floor would not need anymore. Zant, having had an opportunity to experience the demon’s metaphysical abilities, was faring much better than the aforementioned. By going almost completely rogue, devising a style that consistently mixed up unpredictability, teleportation and frenzy, he was creating a veritable carnage. Ghirahim’s borrowed princely face adopted a mien of complete sadism.

Albeit rather inspired, Ghirahim could not quell his vessel to his will. Zant’s body, he decided, complied way better when housing _him_ , preferably pinned against a soft mattress.  
It was not befitting of the Demon Lord to distract himself in the battlefield with such ludicrous lewd thoughts. The momentary diversion faded at the expense of a long bleeding gash on his side, luckily not profound enough to pose a considerable hazard to his life (now weakened by Zant’s mortality); and with a volumed battle cry. It hurt like a _harlot_ ; so he naturally had to punish his attacker.  
Taking each strike so personally, enough as to deal karma to all who dared offend his form, Ghirahim felled many a soldier in spite of his inability to take proper control of Zant’s body. It was perhaps the fact that it was the mortal Twili being hurt and not his recoverable faux flesh which gilded each blow of Ghirahim’s with an unnatural tempo. Zant was, after all, his valuable lieutenant, wasn’t he? He was to be kept free from death. _At least until he no longer is useful to Master_ ; the demon forced inside his mind.

The battle was long and exhausting; full of turns and twists, but Zant seemed to never falter. Ghirahim had learnt to truly value his tirelessness: experiencing the extent of Zant’s mortal body’s restrictions had changed his mind about himself… or that would be what logically should have happened. Truthfully, the demon limited to open-mouthedly complain about how vulnerable, weak, obstinate and weary Zant was. Of course, all of that while clutching at his side with one hand to vainly prevent blood loss and executing sword flourishes that were far too difficult for _his_ musculature with the other.

Truth be told they wouldn’t have stood an earthly weren’t it for the Usurper king (hosted by his mate). The unraveling of his acts instilled such fright in the Allied Forces soldiers’ hearts that their demoralized psyches were nigh incapable against such crushing sight. Besides, their remaining hordes of moblins and stalfos had fought (and continued to fight, but in reduced number) exceedingly.  
They almost seemed to have perceived the small quagmire their captains were wrapped in.

There was something that unsettled Ghirahim’s cool and calculating mind as he clumsily (but not any less effectively) beheaded a Hylian captain. Throughout the entire clash he had not once seen the green-clad lad or any of his playmates. Considering they were the thick of their army, it was insensible to haul an entire battalion towards the bloodthirsty monsters without any heroic support. Far from relieved by it, he felt uneasy.

While Ghirahim dreaded, Zant celebrated. He too had noticed the absence of important members of their counterparty, but couldn’t be more overjoyed about it.

“Hey, Ghirahim.” He chimed above the battle turmoil, happily pumping his fist into the air. “Link’s not with them!”

Ghirahim found he was too fond of that nitwit, to his liking.

Slow but steady, every single Hylian trooper was driven away. Surely, Ganondorf mused with a grin as he contemplated the corpse-ridden battlefield, they were to stay away for as long as it took him to devise a way to undo Cia’s handiwork. If they rode a luck streak, maybe even more.  
Despite what had definitely been a hurried and fruitful attempt to save their situation, both Ghirahim and Zant had behaved in an undeniably foolish manner. The first half of the battle consisted in them getting injured all over due to their halfwit little heads getting used to the other’s countenance and capabilities; something they should have been doing way earlier to Ganon’s mind.  
As for the second half, it had improved rapidly, but not enough to produce equal casualties in the enemy rows. Martyrs there had been many, especially Mogoblin generals who couldn’t be bothered to fight next to their disarrayed lieutenants.

Night was already closing fast above their heads when both Ghirahim and Zant were summoned to the briefing hall.  
They were undecided. Was it becoming to feel fear or pride in their situation? They asked, they placed bets, they murmured under their fatigued breaths to each other. Their state was so tensioned that Zant had resorted to holding Ghirahim’s hand, albeit with a straight face, barely expressing that he leaned more on the ‘absolutely terrified’ side of the scales. The other, ever perceptive and willing to express emotions himself, flaunted a victorious smirk as he strode. He did not remove his hand from Zant’s, however, and Demise knows why.

It was rather hard to tell whether Ghirahim’s expression became that of self-hatred midway to the hall or if it remained constant, but for someone who was seeing his own face, Zant knew very well what his lover was struggling to convey. In his own abode, he could see traces of worry and straining guilt, but it was far from him to pinpoint the catalyst.  
He could see him clutching at his flank and probing a certain locality, as if testing out the gravity of a wound.  
After witnessing that, a glorious idea came to shape in Zant’s twisted lovesick mind: Ghirahim worried. He worried for his wellbeing. He worried for his body, which had nurtured _his_ with action many sleepless nights… but he worried for Zant, in definitive.

That could, and had to mean, **love.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /Thank you so much for the kudos! I hope you have enjoyed it so far. Please let me know if you want me to continue this (although I'd do it anyway because this is self-indulgent) because it motivates me!/


	5. Hummingbird

Gazing upon his not-so-stalwart servants with disapproval stood the Gerudo King. A grave expression reigned upon his face as it usually did when there were matters of war to address. Yet, not a single word was spoken by either side until everyone had been suited to a chair.  
The one to break the silence was in fact not Ganondorf. The huge man had limited himself to frowning all through their brief walk from the door to the table, and even after that. He seemed to be decrying an unprofessional attitude from his cursed lieutenants. That episode, so mystifying to both the demon and the twili, continued until they came to the realization that they had been holding hands. Much like an uncomfortable young groom Ghirahim recoiled from Zant’s touch and chanced a winsome grin at Ganondorf. It did not go well at all.  
What use did those extremely sensitive notches (placed at the sides of _his_ lips) have outside of pleasure and heat sensing? None for expression! If anything, they obstructed every display of emotion and gave his voice a lisp he could only afford to hear when Zant was speaking with it. Ghirahim was truly bothered.

“Master?” 

Pretending like he hadn’t absolutely hated how things had turned out for him wasn’t necessarily one of Ghirahim’s flairs; be it in his own body or not. His last word, in result, was pronounced with utter dismay, which was only further aggravated by Zant when he tipped his head in question.

 _Why did he have to remove his hand from that sweet nestling of his?_ Even if that hand was _his_ own, Ghirahim had lent it to offer support. All of a sudden, he removed it… and had the gall to act like that never occurred!

Meanwhile, Ganondorf frowned even further. There was even a slight rumbling in his throat when the demon—twili… _Ghirahim_ yanked his hand away from Zant’s. Almost like he had discovered what he was thinking, it seemed.

Before his silent minions did, he lifted the veil of quiescence with a simple word. “Well…” Only to let it fall right on their noses thereafter, of course. At least, just for a little while.

The whole situation was beginning to grow into a conundrum and it only unsettled Ghirahim _and_ Zant further. Finally, and to either ease or enhance their worries, Ganondorf shed some light.

“Your performance in the battlefield was horribly crude and lacked tactics. Nothing of what you did was what we agreed to do if taken by surprise!” Those words marked a strong contrast with the tone and body language of the Gerudo. Calm… maybe too calm. At this point, his subordinates were positively trembling and distraught, for they knew Ganondorf’s ire from up close. Nevertheless, things brightened up like dawn in a matter of instants. “But I’ll consider your confusion. The conjuration cast upon you —I did my research— not only changed your bodies but also left you with clouded senses. If I must take that into account, well… our keep wasn’t precisely vanquished (although half of our moblins are dead).”

Was Ganondorf _congratulating_ them? In his own manner of prose and palaver, there was indeed likelihood. They were left ecstatic, for in any manner that was the most they would obtain for a man so frugal with compliments.

“We understand” Zant made an addendum, beside himself in bliss. “that our performance resulted in the casualties of many. I am enthralled by your benevolence, Master…” 

A quick glance at Ghirahim, sympathetic and pure, was all he needed to confirm just how veritable his further words were: “…and he is, as well.”

There was a brief spell in which the scenario seemed to freeze for them. Ghirahim, bobbing his head up and down without his signature grace, could not make Ganondorf’s words fit in his troubled psyche. Partly by his thankfulness, perhaps by the fact that he had heard Zant add him into his often self-centered sessions of ‘praise-the-Master’. He wasn’t even nigh certain of the reason in the first place.  
What happened was that the demon (unbeknownst to himself, of course; or else he would never have allowed for that to happen) stretched his hand beneath the wooden, grained slab of the table. He did it just enough, and subtly at that, until the tips of _his_ fingers reached the texture of a pair of familiar white gloves.  
Then, a greedy hand twined over those elongated and padded fingers.  
Were they reciprocally, consensually holding hands **for the second time in that overly long day**?  
That, it seemed.

As much as they both would have prayed to erase it, their action indubitably attracted golden eyes like honey called flies.  
It was but a matter of luck (and perhaps how jaded he was after the strife) that the Gerudo decided against commenting. Neither a stare nor a word slipped from him to declare how aware he was, but it sufficed. Ghirahim was a sharp individual (the adjective never less suitable to his condition, though) and he had drawn something from the way his Master granted them leave. How long could that man go oblivious to their condition as lovers? Never with less doubt that then, he had picked the pieces together quite some time ago.  
Didn’t moblins, bokoblins and stalfos all clamor mocking and hurtful phrases whenever they were seen together?  
Ghirahim would have to have a serious consultation with Zant, all down-to-earth facts and feelings put as blatantly honest as possible. 

_What are we?_ ; the demon interrogated himself as they pranced side-by-side with entwined hands. Their thighs touched, as a brief indicator of their proximity. With all that, neither dared move as little as half an inch to avoid that contact (in fact, all their actions were choreographed suspiciously in time to _enhance_ that immediacy).

 _What are we walking into?_ ; the inquiry continued while dawdling in front of a large door. Once it was open, Ghirahim searched for the answer, that light-shedding fact that would quell his soul’s rabid questioning to the volume of a whisper.  
Unfortunately, he found none outside of the embrace Zant was quick to pull him into. Both bodies reclined and tangled on a soft bed they were forced to share («forced», as if it was a negligence, a punishment to be beside that beautiful being _who now bore **his** body_ ) ever since Zant’s door was unhinged and sent flying mere hours ago.

A kiss awakened Ghirahim from his deep pondering, much like a ton of feathers dabbed simultaneously right to his face.  
It could be just his warped perception, but that had been their first kiss outside of carnal affairs… and their first altogether since the transformation.

“What are you looking to start now, hmm?” There was no ignoring the heavy coloration Ghirahim’s cheeks had acquired. Twili bodies were so easily flushed!

“Start?” Zant naïvely repeated, looking nonplussed. “I merely wanted to test kissing _myself_.” 

Why did Ghirahim find that response absolutely obnoxious? Almost as if he had been expecting something different completely. For some reason, he had bet all his hopes in a devious smirk: Zant so often directed those at him when he wished to draw pleasure later in the night. A question lingered, though, and it was regarding the reason he felt so peeved. 

**_Grow up already. Are you hoping for chaste kisses under the moonlight now?_ **

There was a voice, but it wasn’t Ghirahim’s. What’s more, it wasn’t his head, it was _inside_ his head.  
Somehow it had managed to make Ghirahim feel absolute shame; a sentiment not akin to him. Thusly, and turning his back on Zant, he elevated a complaint. 

“You could do yourself the favor of saying the truth, Twili.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> / I'm so grateful for all the support, especially Eden, Cheru and Crow's for telling me their opinion of this fic and even helping me out with a few paragraphs. /


	6. Illuminate!

"How do you feel? Concerning _me_ , I mean."

The question floated into the air and rested there. Instants passed in which Zant could only make out the other's expression due to how used he was to _his own_ face.  
It was an expression of doubt, worry masked with bother, uncertainty masked with exhasperation. A mix that would certainly have looked fitting had Ghirahim been wearing his own face.

As strange as it seemed, there had been partial pretense behind Zant's kiss. He could not possibly feel less attracted to those wide, yellow eyes and the pair of lips that coupled with them, marked and cut down into his senses to signal his former priestly condition. And although shame was the Twili's signature emotion in regards of his own looks, he had very well been curious.Those meddlesome thoughts were naturally enhanced by the multitude of sensations his misplaced mind harbored. Incomplete, lacking something essential and paramount for his welbeing.  
His people usually performed sapping rituals to drain that emptiness and replace it with _sense_. Zant's sense was clouded by the lack of the core to his entire ilk. Light-dwellers might as well call that existential need 'love'. For Twilis it was far more complex, a yuxtaposition of countless sensations and emotions that combined mind, soul and body. It was as humoral as it was factical. Twilis described their love as 'the ability to elevate', and Zant required his own body to perform it.

**_How do you feel?_ **

In the same way Twilis had come countless times to him looking to get rid of residual love, they had requested for him to cure the void.   
But there was only so much a Royal Priest could do, as ancient as his study-powered abilities were. It was that capacity to trascend and comprehend which had initially planted the seed of questioning in the already perverse Twili. Were they left to their own devices, in captivity, for sins interlopers of old had comitted? Book after book suggested titherward.

**_How do you feel?_ **

Confused. He had felt terribly puzzled.  
What was the just thing to be done in that situation? Zant had found himself asking into the air with ever-faltering nerves. If _he_ couldn't do what they asked... who would save them?

He loved his people. He loved himself.

And it had all been an act of mercy, an act of love, an act of pride and smite.

Now, with Ghirahim, it was different. It was him who felt that void, for being born a Twili who had loved seldom; and now loving painfully. Innocence took its toll on Zant: demons were creatures of the flesh, as Ghirahim had friendly pointed out many times. That meant, of course, love was entirely off-limits for them.  
If Zant had propeled his head forward to meet lips with he who looked like himself, the reasons behind that were too foggy to be grasped. In reality, he wanted to feel the remnants of that Twili love, his ability to elevate. But mostly, he wanted to feel Ghirahim's soul. It was trapped in a body with senses and experiences beyond his habits, much like Zant was as well.

And feel it he did. A soul in those conditions was probably subject to a lot of pain, like he knew _his_ was. Or, perhaps, being Ghirahim that pain did not exist.  
Perhaps the only pain the demon was experiencing in that dire moment was the one that came along Zant's oddly-proportioned body. Now, he could be considered to be attractive by Twili standards; something he had never taken into account. However, biases for beauty in the Light world were... quite different to say the least. Sharp nose and cheekbones, lucious and plump lips, wide eyes like wells of emotions. Beauty standards in that realm were... well, if Zant had paid minimal attention to his books, he’d know they were **Ghirahim** , in definitive.

Now, Zant could not tell him that, could he?  
Not without risking at least a horrifying laugh. Manic, berating, raucous laughter sprouting from lips he would not kiss ever again after the whole situation was over. He wanted to be in his own body, as much as he detested it… simply because he felt Ghirahim’s was the only body he wanted to hold.

And that knowledge felt like a thousand bricks were unleashed on the Twili’s face all at once, but as if they had simultaneously been released from his back, made to weigh nothing. It was a gratifying _and_ frightening realization.

"Positively, of course." Came the horribly belated reply.  
At that point, all that Ghirahim was was a frown and bared teeth, much to Zant's dismay. Situation which only became more exaggerated as the demon shoved him away and sat in a more comfortable position, looking like business.  
Any body contact at that point would most certainly not be taken friendly by the demon. Were he to judge by how positively bothered he looked, of course.

"It's taking me a huge effort to be this straightforward. You could minimally consider giving a consistent response."  
Zant wished with earnest he could hide his mouth behind the comfortable shelter of a pair of long, wide sleeves. Such blatant honesty was rare in Ghirahim. He usually endorsed labyrinthine speaking, twisting his own meaning until Zant could not follow anymore.

The fact that he was being so professional about it rang the alarm in the Twili's head. Something was afoot, and unless he played his carts correctly, he would not like the result.  
Zant forced his troubled mind to race, fumbling with millions of possible replies, juggling with them and discarding the worst ones. If only those were their rightful bodies…! Leaning in and touching Ghirahim would be tempting then. It would sound like a good idea, even… but, no. If the demon wished to sort things out, Zant had to help. He, too, desired to clarify what their feelings for each other were.

It just was way too difficult!

"My apologies..." How easy it was, on the contrary, to fidget, uneasy, until proper words came into his head! However, Zant kenned Ghirahim to be quite the impetuous type. If he wanted a reply... oh, he would obtain it!

"...won't get you anywhere, Twili. Shall I make this easier for you?" At Zant's sheepish head nodding, Ghirahim pursed his lips, realized it hurt to do so, and subsequently shuffled closer to Zant. "Do you want to bed me only, or is there any... sentiment in you?"

Despite the rather spat-out words Ghirahim was aiming at him, Zant kept his composure more or less unscathed. For the time being, he could only take concern in **his own** pair of orange eyes scouting all over his, requesting, searching.  
He thought he could see a dash of desperation in them.

Could it be... that Ghirahim, a Demon, no less, wished for a positive response? Could that glimmer in his vast sclera be the hope for something more serious?  
As much as Zant would have liked to heed his common sense, both his anxious personality and his worries held him back.  
He knew he was in the worst place of the scenario. Ghirahim could clearly infer that Zant did love him, simply from the fact that he had wordlessly decided to maintain the lovers deal even in another body. That made it clear that what he liked was _Ghirahim_ and not **his body**.

And oppositely, the same could not hold true for Ghirahim. It was just that his narcissism made it difficult for Zant to decide whether he had stayed just to be able to watch himself naked, or because he truly appreciated him enough. Clearly, and as usual, Ghirahim had the upper hand concerning their relationship.

Twili fingers wiggled in anticipation for a response. As if on cue, Zant's insecurities began to cave in.  
He had indeed guessed the hopefulness in his eyes.  
"I greatly appreciate you," with an emotion-ridden voice that tried to be stoic and unmovable, was Zant's reply to Ghirahim, whose emotions could hardly be contained as well.

"Not just _that_ , please. Elaborate! Do me the solid."

That overtly glad reaction was all he needed. Zant's insecurities vanished with a smirk as he put one of his hands on Ghirahim's, over the soft covers of the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> / Thank you for helping me with this! I'm grateful of each reader, each friend, each kudo and each follower. <3 /

**Author's Note:**

> / If you enjoyed this chapter, make sure to stay tuned! /


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